For years the Princess has been hounding us to buy her a left handed pair of scissors. We haven’t. Not because we are cruel heartless monsters but because we kept forgetting. Eventually, she bought her own and waved them reproachfully at us. The other evening, I wanted to cut something and the only pair of scissors I could find was the left handed pair. Quite awkward for a right handed person to use. I’m sorry now.
Archives for June 2013
According to RTE, the bank holiday weekend is sponsored by Liberty insurance. Humph. Anyhow, it’s certainly not sponsored by Anglo-Irish Bank whose unfinished headquarters looms over the docklands. As Mr. Waffle said, enough irony for a double Alanis Morisette album.
We were down in the docklands yesterday for organised fun and it was, as ever, disastrous. Queue to get on to small boat; fork out for overpriced random treats; walk for miles. I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. Here are some photos which in no way reflect the actual level of fun had at the event.
Today we fulfilled a long held ambition of mine and went on a day trip to Northern Ireland. It was, as Daniel said, almost successful. The weather was beautiful. The walk through the woods near Rostrevor was lovely.
But herself was wearing fur lined boots and she was very toasty. She told us about it a great deal. Michael had fashioned a wand for himself which he lost and no other twig in the forest was a substitute. We went back to the viewing point to get it. It is now beside his bed. In case Voldemort attacks during the night.
On the plus side, the views were beautiful and we did reach the big stone (Cloch Mór) which Fionn mac Cumhaill was supposed to have thrown at a marauding Scottish giant. Tempers were a bit frayed, though, by the time we had our picnic at 2. However, I finally got to use the fancy picnic basket that we got as a wedding present nearly 12 years ago, so another tick for my life list.
After the picnic, we went into Rostrevor; it was pretty but very quiet. We visited a graveyard where there was a 15th century church ruin and tried and failed to find Giant Murphy’s grave. The children refused to leave the car so Mr. Waffle and I wandered round in sunshine peacefully reading 19th century gravestones.
Then we went to look for a nice cafe in Warrenpoint. I was led astray by the internet which plugged a place called Sweet Pea very hard. It’s in the car park of a large garden centre rather than looking out over the beauty of Carlingford Lough so, poor choice. On the plus side the internet said it was “waaay overpriced” but to our Dublin sensibilities £1.50 for a cup of tea was excellent value.
The children quite enjoyed crossing the border and using sterling, seeing different signposts and red letterboxes and telephone boxes. However, when we crossed back into Co. Louth and I said that we had left Northern Ireland, Michael rolled down his window and said, “Ah, Irish air”. He has much to learn about the complexities of Irish identity.
Addendum: I should have said, a part of Michael remains forever in Northern Ireland as he finally lost that tooth that has been hanging by a thread for months. Despite our best efforts to find it, it remains hidden in the long grass in Rostrevor.
Herself [listening to the news on the radio at breakfast]: What is all this about public sector and private sector?
Mr. Waffle: Well, there are some jobs where people are mostly employed by the government and those are in the public sector like people who work on the roads for the council or teachers who work in schools or doctors who work in hospitals. There are other jobs where people work to make a profit for a company; those create employment and provide services people want but generally their principal aim is to make money.
Her: And doesn’t the public sector make money? Can’t they work to make money?
Him: Well, generally no, for example, the army could work to do things to make money but I think most people wouldn’t want to live in a country where the army rented out its services to whoever could pay.
Her: Why not?
Him: Well think of the things the army might do to make money.
Her [pause]: They could run cake sales.
I had to collect Daniel and a neighbour’s child from GAA training last night. The neighbour dropped them off and I was to collect them. I never do this normally as I am at work/indolent/put in whatever you fancy here. Mr. Waffle was away for a couple of days and he had left me detailed information about everything including GAA drop off and pick up times (school sporting events, putting out the bins etc.). He has no faith in me. I went to our club to collect the two boys at 7.
There was no sign of the 2005 boys’ squad anywhere. I checked all the fields. In mounting alarm, I checked the changing rooms and the bar. Nothing. Could I be in the wrong place? I tried ringing Mr. Waffle, his phone was off as he was in a plane. I tried the neighbours; their phones were off as they were having a romantic anniversary dinner. I approached a man training another team. “Maybe they are at another club,” he said. He started to ring around people: “Do you have the 2005 boys’ summer schedule? Oh you’re in Mallow/You’re on your bike” and so on. I was grateful but I was also imagining the two lads having decided to walk home or something daft. It was half an hour after the end of training at this stage and there was no sign of them. Then I saw one of the other parents. “Where are the 2005 boys?” I asked him. “They’ve been training down the road since April; your fella was there, I saw him.” I drove down the road like the clappers and there were the two boys with a kind coach waiting patiently.
When Mr. Waffle got in I asked how in the list of things, he could have forgotten to mention to me that the boys weren’t training in their own club. “Oh yeah, sorry,” said my very organised husband. I’m still recovering.